Heart & Soul

Crow knows.

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Crow knows grief.

If you’re brave enough to live life full and rich and little wild, there is of course a downside. You will experience grief and loss and pain. It’s part of the package of life. You can try to play it safe, stay home, watch from the window or the barn stall and wonder what living really feels like. But even within castle or padded walls, there will come a day when grief will find its way in through the tiniest of cracks and fissures and fester in your heart and soul and oddly, make you something more. Something deeper, richer, fuller, wiser; something more compassionate for having experienced this part of life and living that none of us look forward to, but all of us intimately know or will know.

Grief is part of living. It is a burden we all one day will bare. A shared experience like one of those finely woven threads that bind us together.

We all know grief.

“Only those who have can lose.”

Years ago, Crow witnessed the loss of his foals, then his beloved, and then her daughter.

This week he watched me load his granddaughter in the trailer and roll down the dusty road, taking her away.

I wish he understood. I wish I could explain. I wish he knew we are simply hauling her away for a week, and she will return. Hopefully with a new family member brewing within her.  

Many years ago on my old blog (the long since deleted High Mountain Muse), I shared the story of how Crow got his name. He was a three year old stallion, green and fresh and wild, I adopted in hopes of replacing the horse with whom I had been guiding. He was a hellion when he first came to the ranch – never having left the barn in which he was born. Careful what you ask for. I wanted a challenge. This was more of one than I wanted, and I wasn’t sure I was up for it.

As I sat on a stump in frustration with him on “time out” behind me, wildly pacing the fence with his head held high and the whites of his eyes exposed like a mad man (that is another name for young stud), I heard his lungs rhythmically, rapidly filling and releasing, pulsing with powerful breaths, and I remembered how it feels to run in the open places with a healthy horse pumping beneath and hair and mane and tail flying free and that sound of their lungs like the beating of wings… and just then a black bird flew over head and I heard that sound in unison.

And so he was named: Flying Crow.

That was almost twenty years ago. Twenty years of training, riding, guiding, working together in the mountains, countless pack trips, a lot of breeding, and a lot of loss. Loss I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not him. Not me. But that was the curse we endured.

And left behind.

Always remaining within us in a dark, tender corner of our heart.

Some days that feeling resurfaces, catches us off guard, takes the wind from our lungs and we stand there wondering what has hit us. It is an emptiness. A hunger. A void. A black hole in our hearts. How else can we each describe that which we all have felt?

That is what I saw on Crow’s face this week.

He has been my faithful partner, playing and working in the mountains, and crossing the West with me, through more miles, adventures and stories than he or I shall ever dare share.

Along the way, he learned the unfortunate truth that grief is. This has happened to me too. We say that going through grief is essential to the human experience. But those of us that have spent enough time around other species know it is not reserved for humanity. It is a shared sense of soul.

This morning she revisited me, a wave of old rehashed emotion washing over me, stirring current calm waters and I want it to just go away.

Demons disappear only when we muster the courage and strength, trust and faith to stop running, turn around, face what you fear is chasing you. Look it in the eyes. And in the depth of the eyes you will see the reflections of the still forest pool where real love resides. It’s one in the same. And in that clarity, somehow, not that scary after all. The essence within every pool, every eye, every fear is still love.

As you stand there before the calming waters, allow the mud of fear to settle as you witness the love rising, radiating from the surface. It does not eliminate the pain of grief. But somehow, it does even more than balance it out. It give you something more. You dip from the pool and taste that which you have been thirsting for.

Crow has been around. He’s seen a lot. Been through a lot. Done a lot. And some of that “lot” invariably has been grief.

Witnessing his grief now makes my own somehow more bearable. I know his will be relieved in just a few more days when we bring his granddaughter home to him, hopefully with a baby growing within.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Slow & Steady.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Things are happening.

Good things.

On the land.

With the building.

In my spirit and soul.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Down and out, way up high.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Because some times a gal’s gotta do….

Nothing.

That’s what I did yesterday.

After a month being here and a season before that preparing to be here (and to be gone from there), all of it caught up with me, wrapped me up hard and tight, and laid me out.

And I guess that’s okay. Can’t say I had much of a choice.

Maybe if I gave less, did less, demanded less of myself, you know? (Sometimes, don’t you feel the same?)

But I don’t. (Do you?)

As long as I’m living, I’m going to live. Fully. And yes, intensely.

Even in my own quiet, wild way.

Not half-assed, but full on. Building, living, writing, creating, witnessing, listening, loving.

Even when it does to me what it did yesterday.

Knocks me out.

Even that, I did full on.

Nothing part way about it.

Complete shut down.

A day in bed.

And today, this morning, with the cacophony of summer birds song filling the air with the same intensity of the strong light of morning sun flooding our wide open valley, and the pride of seeing the cabin slowly come to life (very slowly though it seems), and the gratitude for my husband for allowing me a day to shut down (and dealing with the normal high vibe intensity that is a wild wave he manages to float upon with ease), that intensity softens, just enough, as the rooster crows and the hens run around work site as if we churned up the ground just for them, and the horses lay prone in the morning peace, and the pup ever ready for play waits patiently for my energies to return…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Ode to our country.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Admittedly, it’s not an impressive size flag, yet this is the little flag was strapped to my pack horse as I rode across the west on my Long Quiet Ride. So it’s seen this country, been waved to, honked at and warmly welcomed around campfires and kitchen tables of complete strangers that had the compassion and curiosity to let me in.

Likewise, singing is not my thing and won’t be my future, but this song played over and over and over again in my head and on my lips, and I found myself singing aloud time and time and time again with the clip clop clip clop of eight hooves in unison while I was out there, often with tears in my ears, falling in love with life again, and falling in love with this country – I can’t say “all over again,” but more like for the very first time. It was then and there, out there, during those moments of seeing flags, receiving innumerable random acts of kindness and prayers, and witnessing the beautiful generosity and trust, welcoming and kindness from absolute strangers that changed me forever and made me love this country and be proud to belong to it.

Happy 4th of July! 

Cheers to this beautiful land we are blessed to belong to.

No, it’s not perfect. Neither are you. Neither am I. Yet each of us – all of us – and this country we share – becomes better with commitment, connection and contribution. Remember:

United we stand.

Divided we fall.

Let’s stop the whining. Stop the bitching and moaning. And definitely, stop the fighting. Let’s get our shit together, peeps.

Come together. Mind the gap. Fill it in. We’re all in this together.

Rather than focusing on the faults, let’s strive to find the beauty. In the land. In the people. In yourself. In the person next to you, no matter where they’re coming from or where they’re going to. They’re here. Sharing this beautiful land. This beautiful day. This beautiful life.

And what a beautiful country we’ve got to share! Have we forgotten? If so, it’s time to crack open our shells and find out for ourselves. Get out there and check it out. Go on, be brave, step outside your shell and see. Look around. Lean in. Look deep. Find some beauty, some magic, some wonder and awe. It won’t be hard to do. Open your eyes then open your heart and watch the walls fall down.

My fellow Americans, it’s time to tear down the walls we’ve been building, fill in that seemingly black hole between us that keeps us from coming together, and stop allowing ourselves to be thrown in the pit against one another. It’s time to find the courage to open our hearts, find some good in people we meet, neighbors near and far, strangers we pass on the street. We’re all in this together. Let’s strengthen the threads that connect us, and remember we’re all wrapped up in those stars and stripes together.

Whatever our beliefs, seems like we all pretty much want the same things. A safe home, a beautiful land, and a bright future for our children.

So what are we arguing over? Don’t you see how that weakens us all?

Have the courage to step away from dividing. Have the courage to stand together.

My coach reminds me, “Hurt people hurt.” I don’t want to be that person. Do you? Come on, let’s get over it. Stop hiding behind fears. Be strong enough to be nice enough.

May we all find common ground, beautiful threads that connect us, and tear down the walls that divide.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

The intimate connection between person and place.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

(viewing this land from the top of Boot Mountain)

Another morning sitting at the table in this tiny trailer to write while my husband leans back in bed less than ten feet away holding his coffee cup in his hands as if in silent prayer, and the dog lays with gentle deep breathing at my feet beneath the little table that serves as kitchen and office, work space and desk, and the first of today’s sun pours in from over the hills to the east, spreading across the table like spilled milk.

So much I want to share with you this morning. My hands are unable to move as fast as my mind, and my mind cannot keep up with the hugeness that is my heart right now. I want to share with you about the dozen mama elk descending from dark timber on our lower pasture whilst we sit by the campfire witnessing the nursery band of their babies held safe to the side by the sentinels while the mothers graze. I want to share with you the haunting sound of a family of coyotes at last light, singing to one another, but stirring us in the process, simply by bearing witness to their wailing, while our pup even sat still in reverie close by, amazed at the mystery of his distant cousins. I want to share with you the intoxication of being high, really high, top of the mountain high, above treeline and dizzy with elevation high in thin air with rubbery legs and a tired euphoric pride from having hiked from our camp to the high peak of these mountain, standing their together, my man and me, in absolute awe of the land we are becoming.

I guess what I want to share is simply the intimate connection between person and place; exposing the sensitive openness of the soul into nature and wilds. This is what I can give you today. This is what I offer to share with you with humble outstretched arms and a very vulnerable heart.

Already we start to see forever. That’s what we do and who we are.

We try to keep ourselves reined in. We’re just committing to today. We’ll see how things go from there.

Only we can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do. Connection with land grows, tight and strong and intense as we toil. So from the get go, we’re planning and plotting where the garden will go, the big hay barn, the calving shed… the three bay garage for our son…

Slow down.

We felt the reality of age in the last couple months – the back and forth of unwanted time on the road,  the physical limitations of our bodies, the unpredictable yet governing weather, the desire to enjoy the magic of whatever mountains we live in and the insatiable need to grow roots.

Can we grow old here? Can we grow old there?

We are not snowbirds. We don’t want two places, two lands, two lives. We are grounded. We work the land. Give more than we take. We become a part of the land, as the land works its way into our veins from open wounds, beneath our fingernails, into our pores, into our bones. The land finds its way into our callouses and sweat, and our blood seeps into the waterways and into the roots of the hungry trees.

I am monogamous with the land as I am with my lover, like my beloved ravens. I have mated for life, but I am not certain where we are meant to build our final nest.

The search for the sense of belonging is not found in the view but in the intimate connection between person and place that comes and grows with time, care, tending the land, committing to the community, good times and bad, hard times and easy, stories and dreams and dramas.

I don’t want advice. If I wanted a life like you, I’d have it. I want a life like me. That’s the wisest thing I can encourage you to do too – find your own way, listen to the song of your heart and have the courage to dance to that tune.

We’ll listen for the wisdom of the land and of our hearts. We’ll see what this summer brings.

Already I know I am not going to want to leave this land come fall. I want to commit. Wherever I am. But here, there is something that stirs me, tempts me, digs into my bones. I will want to see her wither and brown, then grey and white, brittle and frail and frozen. I will want to witness the silence of winter when morning birds head to lower ground and the creeks freeze over and the branches are stripped bare of quaking leaves. I will want to stand out upon her frozen grounds and listen to the distant call of the coyote and the raven, the few hearty enough to remain, and say yes, I am with you, I too not only endure, but find the beauty and awe and wonder and grace in the wide, wild, white open slate that winter will bring.

But for now I want to just be here. Experiencing the wilds. The wilds that hold us, open us with frozen mornings and biting winds, and define us with the challenge of our heart to not only endure, but to burst free.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

What the dirt stirred up.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Red flag warnings flare again today. Strong winds rattle the little camper. Dust devils twirl and dance along the dirt road where the horses run. Logging trucks stir lingering amber clouds in the far distance. Dry and dusty and this feels like the Wild West. And today, it feels like home.

The work site stays somewhat protected against the east facing hill, tucked between the little camper and the new bathhouse. The dirt work is done. Right on schedule for a cement pour happening later this week.

With light frost and ice kicked out of the dog water bowl outside, and inside the little camper the thermometer read 42, I’m excited for solid wood walls and a wood stove.

But we’re a long ways away from that.

In the meantime, plenty to do to keep me busy, and (in theory) out of trouble.

But then there was this.

Trouble.

It’s a thing for me.

Horses.

The livestock auction was this weekend with sixty horses being run through, mostly by horse trainers and traders, and not too many buyers. I could have bought a few.

I refrained.

And limited myself to just this one.

The new boy.

I don’t know what they called him at the race track, but the folks who sold  him to me called him Jessie. A good, historic Western name. We’ll see if it sticks. He kinda looks like Cinco to me. See, before him, there was Tres, and there was Quatro, and two other sorrels with stars before that.  This guy has a blaze, not a star, but sorrel he is, so we’ll see which name takes hold as he settles into life on this mountain with us.

So far, so good.

Getting a new horse (and this is something long overdue for us) is kinda like having a baby. You’re never really ready, and the timing is never right.

Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to get through.

And I need horses to get through…

In an ideal world (if there is such a thing), we’d bring the new guy home and put him in a little pen and spend some quality time with him, bonding and getting used to one another for a week or a month or whatever it took before I was certain turning him out didn’t mean he’d run away. But it’s not slick and perfect here. It’s a little wild and western, rough and rustic (and did I mention, very dirty?).

So we bring the new guy home and put him in the corral where I keep my two old horses nearby at night. Leave him there a couple hours while he meets the old guys over the safe panels.

And then we turn him out.

Okay, so it’s 160 acres of fenced off open ground here, crossed fenced to maybe 80 acres. Turning a new horse out onto 80 acres seems a little nuts. And an ex race horse, at that. I expected all hell to break loose. It didn’t.

The old guys met the new guy, nose to nose, ran back and forth once in front of the camp for maybe 100 feet. Then put their heads down to eat. That’s kind of how it’s been ever since.

He’s a sweetie, a little unsure of wild open spaces, but bonding well with the old guys, and learning good lessons from them, from me, and from the mountain. How to cross washes and drink from creeks. How to lay down to rest in the morning sun and graze close to camp in the evenings where you’ll be treated and brushed and put in the safe pen for the night. And most important, of course: How to come to mama when called 😊

This guys is a keeper for sure.

Alright, enough about horses. I gotta get back to work…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

~

Date night.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Finally a warmer evening.  No rain and hail this afternoon to cool things down to cold. So he heats a bucket of water over the fire and offers me a soak, out under the wide open sky that throws her usual evening show of colors nearly gaudy – blues and violets and magentas and grays, blending boldly in untamed air.

As I slip my dirty feet into the pail, a part of me melts. Between the warm water, watching ground-in dirt abrade, and the generosity of my husband to share this simple gift, I soften.

Two weeks ago yesterday, we left our oasis in California, and today Colorado feels like home. Here, there, wherever I am. Wherever the soil rubs deep into my pores and comes to rest beneath my nails. Wherever the air fills and burns my nose and lungs and wherever the water in which I bathe becomes me. That is where I am, where I wish to remain, where I belong, forever.

Camp is set. A place to sleep and cook and clean. A road to come and go. Water to drink and a place for chickens and horses, dog and this meager thing I call a garden. A place to do laundry, store tools, wash after another dirty day.

We are ready to move forward.

And so, we break ground.

And as the sod is peeled back, revealing rich soil below, deposited a millennia ago by the industrious work of beavers, the story in my heart unfolds just as deep, just as wide, just as rich and wild.

And then we return inside. Into the comfort of what is now home to my man, my dog and me. A tiny trailer, 8 feet wide and 14 feet long, that I decorated as I do, with crystals and warm colors and an assortment of things that make me feel cozy. Things that make me feel at home, as does the sound of that rooster’s crow.

Prayer flags in the kitchen window that were custom made many years ago. The only missing message is faith. Something I am returning to. The path is unique to me. The direction is all the same.

Until the next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

The thing about people.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Saving the best (lessons) for last.

Okay not really last (I hope) but late.

Really late.

In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.

It’s about people.

The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.

The thing about people.

See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.

Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.

Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.

Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.

If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.

And yes, scared.

People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.

So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.

I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.

It’s not that I didn’t like people.

It’s just that I chose to be alone.

It’s just that…

I thought I’d be better off.

I thought I’d be safer.

I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.

And guess what I learned?

I was wrong.

Isolation created separation.

And separation created depression.

And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.

And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.

Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.

It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.

It was a trial by fire.

Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.

And out there, I learned two things.

First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.

Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.

Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.

Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.

 And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone.
I wanted to connect.

 I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.

Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”

But some things are very different.

I have learned the thing about people.

And I have learned to love people.

In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.

I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.

Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.

But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.

Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.

I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.

I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.

It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.

But I got it.

Finally.

A late bloomer.

Better late than never.

What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?

A lot.

Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.

How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?

The thing about creating or finding community  and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.

I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.

I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.

Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.

But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.

Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.

I am a part of humanity.

And it’s a good place to be.

Wherever that physical place may be.

And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.

People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.

So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?

How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?

Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.

I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.

And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.

The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly,  my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.

Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

And then we are there.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

On the road with the rooster crowing at every truck stop and sleeping beside the horses at night.

The sound of the familiar, the feel of home. It’s not our first time on the road.

With a load containing chickens, horses, hay and hoses, tools, bicycles, the quad, a dozen pots filled with tomatoes, peppers, lettuce and kale, and the last of the lumber we milled – this is our most eclectic load yet. Our rig could be a site riding across Highway 50. Only there, we fit right in.

Two years ago, when I set out across this West with my horses on a Long Quiet Ride, what I wanted most was to fall in love with life again. I did. And in the process, I fell in love with this country, more than ever before. Being on the road again brings that feeling back again. Love for my country. Love for the ever changing beauty of the land, and of the people I get to meet. Love for the man beside me.

Funny it takes driving a little bit back east from California to breathe in the essence of what I expect the West to be. Maybe because the first place out West that called me was Santa Fe. Thus the smell of sage brush, salt flats and juniper berries, pinon smoke and a film of fine dust open my heart with a wakening surge of spaciousness that few times and places before allowed me to feel.

Wide open spaces, wild horses, a seemingly endless horizon that our rig chases through dusty air with not a tree in sight. Big trucks, fine thin dirt coating every single thing you touch, and dust devils out in the open brush, turkey vultures effortless soaring, and some indescribable feeling of freedom found under these uncontained wild skies.

Out there in the middle of this big open sky and seemingly endless air of spaciousness, it feels like your heart and mind, your spirit and soul, are all ripped open boundless as well.

 I wish to live with a heart wide open where wild horses can roam free.

And then we are there.

Another hail storm passes through and I’m holed up in here writing to you inside what will be home for this season – a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a pan on the little bit of floor between me and the pup, catching water that drips from the skylight, and a little counter cluttered with stuff that hasn’t yet found a place to reside for the season in the already stuffed shelves. There’s a small bed we can spoon sleep in (sometimes with the puppy as well), and a little table that will serve as kitchen, drafting table and writing desk for the season. As for plumbing, there’s a nearby outhouse, and when we finishing unpacking the trailer, a little wooden shed in which we can bath out of the cold which this place just is. As for electricity, we invested in a small portable solar system just big enough to (hopefully) keep our power tools in power, our devices operational, and provide the occational, luxurious StarLink connection.  The nearest cell phone service is down the dirt road a good fifteen miles or so, but that’s nothing new for us.

Yesterday ended with store bought cheesecake (nothing like the kind Lisa makes back in CA) shared in that little bed while over Bob’s shoulder I watched a band of cow elk meandering along our path. This morning started with two big bull moose crossing pasture so close I thought it was my horses. It also began with ice in the dog water bowl and a heavy frost across our land. If you don’t think I’m regretting leaving that heavy chore coat back in California… I should have known better, but it’s hard to think of frost and freezing and chill when you’re sweating in shorts and flip flops. 

Warm coats and blankets and a sense of patience and humor and we’ll get us through this season well.

Before we begin building, there’s the all essential setting up camp, our living situation, ensuring a safe and warm place for the dog, horses and chickens and us. No bragging rights here; it’s boring but necessary and stuff we forget how long it takes. But you can’t get to work without having your make shift home life function. So you gotta get camp set up and situated with things like unpacking the trailer, building shelves, clearing a work space, gathering fire wood, putting up corral panels, setting up water systems, a place to bathe (we still haven’t done that, so if you’re thinking of visiting, you may want to wait). Stuff like that. Not the exciting stuff to share, and certainly doesn’t feel like “progress” but it’s all part of the process.

Part of the process of arriving, too, is connecting slowly with the land around you. Where to look for the elk and moose. What wild flowers here are beginning their bloom. Who are the nearest neighbors and what blessings of connection do they share. What’s the best way to dip water from the creek for our camp. And of course, setting up camp.

These things take time. Now I’m kicking myself for taking more time getting the garden in and our caretaker set up back in California than anticipating what we would need here. But that’s part of the process too, part of the journey, figuring it out as we go along. And knowing we’ll be just fine.

The chickens settled right in to their new digs, They’re out there scratching in some newly leveled dirt, and didn’t miss a day laying eggs even on the road. It takes us longer, but we’ll get there too. Not laying eggs, of course, but we too will be scratching around in the dirt for sure.

Adjusting. Like a snake shedding her skin. Leaving a land already sizzling in heat waves and where fire danger is the hot topic around town. Returning to the high, wild, rough and rugged… and yes, just about always cold. Trading in those flip flops and shorty-shorts for wool socks, down vest and mittens. Yes, even in June.

Even in the trailer, my hands are cold and it’s a little hard to type. Oh, those poor tomato and pepper plants. They survived the trip. We’ll see how well they fare now living in Colorado’s high, wild country. For now, until we build a make shift greenhouse (one more project on the list), we’re putting them back in the trailer at night and covering them with cozy row cover, which comes in handy outside during the hail storms too.

Of course it’s rough to begin with. We’re used to that. Sort of. Funny we kinda forget just how hard some days can be.

You know how it is – we look back and remember the good stuff, allowing memories to be colored rose. It east to just reminisce on the laughter, the adventures, the stories, the love.  And good, because there is always a lot of that too.

This time twenty something years ago, our first season together,  in the one room cabin, the two of us and a nine year old boy, three cats, three dogs, and as usual, an outhouse near by.

That summer and for years afterward, living and working together, in tiny cabins, tents and construction zones, has been the norm for our home life. And often on the trail, guiding trips in the high country where we’d sleep under a tarp because tents were luxuries reserved for our guests.

When one house was done, before we even got a chance to settle in and unpack, we’d be back at it again.

This is the guy I married and the life I chose. The rough and rugged, high and wild, simple living is all good with me. The moving around, well, not so much. We’re both thinking that choosing to settle down might not be a bad idea after all. Mind you, the gypsy life is not what we wanted. It’s just that finding the place to remain forever never came to be. Life happened. Shit happened. And we moved on.

Will we have to again?

For now, all I know is, here we go again, said with both a bit of a heavy sigh and a little laugh upon my smiling lips.

We got this.

I hope.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Held by here and now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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And in that time and space between here and there and somewhere yet to be, there is a place, safe and warm and gentle as a quiet voice or hidden stream. Almost imperceptible, but there if we stand still long enough to hear. Like the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is there. Just waiting for us to sit down and take a breath.

Early morning low sun through massive fir trees on the edge of the forest behind me casts shadows like daggers across the meadow where the dogs romp together in tall grasses still wet with dew.

Today I sit on a simple little bench built of scraps of lumber from this land. Surrounded by soothing sounds, sounds of the familiar – the river, the birds, wind through broad oak leaves. Sounds that hold us in place. 

Held by branches of a sprawling ancient oak.

I lean back into thick bark of the old oak tree. She holds me. Her branches reach around me and I feel like maybe I belong. Right here, right now.

At least for now.

I feel her embrace, like a mother, not a lover, allowing me a safe place to simply sit and be. She asks for nothing in return. The Giving Tree. As if she were only here for me.

Maybe it’s the stillness, the solitude, the simplicity, the natural beauty of this precious moment that every moment could be. Or is it the knowing that I have chosen to leave her let again to fulfill some persistent longing. Whatever it is, it washes over and I find myself for some reason wanting to cry, something that rarely happens (and I’m glad for this) since leaving menopause a safe distance behind.

It’s not that I’m sad or mad. It’s more like some sort of melting, a letting go, a complete release now that the armor is gone. Allowing myself to feel the connection with the tree, the air, the light, the dogs and the world around. All of it. Big stuff. I’m just one grain of sand along an endless shore.

Connected. Belonging. No matter where I am, though for now I find myself here against this solid tree.

I bow my head humbly into my hands and offer a place for tears to land, but really, there is no need to cry. It just feels good to know I can. Knowing I am somewhere safe enough to do so, to express myself with nature, with a natural release, a shared sense of humanity, of all living things.

And that feeling of belonging, to the trees, the grass, my dogs, to all of it, the bigger picture…

Yeah, this is big stuff I’m feeling.

And when you feel like that, what else can a gal do but cry?

And as I prepare to leave, if only for a little while, I wonder:

What holds us in place?

What brings us together?

That is what I want to know.

That is what I’m curious about. This is what I want courage for.

There’s too much separation.

A rift, a void between us all, like a looming black hole and we’re all afraid to step in and see if there’s common ground in there. But I believe there is.

A common thread that holds us together if we dare to feel it. It’s that which connects us, reminds us we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s something shared, like emotion or beauty or awe. These are things we all know. Not only that “beauty in the eye of the beholder.” But beauty in the universal sense. Like looking at the moon from fifteen hundred miles apart. Far apart as we may be, we both stare in wonder.

Please, tell me there is. Solid ground between us. Somehow I need to know this as I find myself leaving something solid, and stepping into the air of unknown.

No more time for baby steps. Now it’s time to leap.

Still, somehow there’s plenty of time to run after baby chicks with my camera and cut a barrage of bouquets just because. But packing? Ha! It’s oddly easy to put that off, waiting until the last minute, then stressing and sweating and running around like a wild hare… But no matter how it gets done, it will get done, and we’ll be on the road. Again.

This time will be different. Every time is.

This time, we’ll be together, and that is a comfort I don’t take for granted. Always harder alone, but sometimes we gotta do that too.

This time too I know where we are heading and the route we’ll take to get there. At least I know this more or less. It’s high and wild, rough and raw and rugged, and I am drawn to all of that as well.

It’s that pioneer spirit.

Or is it gypsy blood?

Maybe I’m just curious.

Curiosity is a curious thing.

How will I know unless I try, taste, touch and see for myself?

For is not curiosity the driving force behind pioneers, travelers, explorers, and even us simple folks with itchy feet?

In any case, curiosity calls. Loud and clear. And as if lured by the Pied Piper, I’m dancing that way.

For now, we are here, and at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.

A morning cacophony of summer bird songs makes me smile before I even get out of bed. From the kitchen table over morning coffee, we watch chicks on pasture and goslings in the river and rose blooms so heavy the bushes bend in abundance. Finally the garden has hit that point of saturation where we’re harvesting more than we can eat each day. There are few things, like a barn full of hay and the firewood shed stacked full, that make me feel like a wealthy woman. Today, my coffee cup runs over.

Now begins the challenge of seeing all over again. The promise of polish in a very rough stone.

Fair thee well for now, my beloved Riverwind, my haven in the hills holding me as if between  generous breasts with your untamed river wrapped around this mild, wild land and entangling my spirited heart along the way.

Colorado, here we come…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin